As well as most Americans never having heard of Cheryl Cole, whoever she is, it turned out that 99% of British people didn't know who she is either - except for the usual celebrity-obsessed kiddies that read The Daily Star and think parts of the body are 'funny' to write about, or TheSpoof.com editors as they're better known.
Street interviews across the United Kingdom had a remarkably similar outcome, one man in Macclesfield said ''Oo? Is she some sort of relation of Andy Cole's?', and in Huddersfield another asked 'Never 'eard of her, mate. Does she do blind dates, though? Cos I've just split up with me fiancee.'
It's here that a journalistic article usually has a brief description of its subject matter, but as this reporter hasn't a clue who or what a Cheryl Cole is the article has to turn into one about football instead. Chelsea this year have turned into some sort of Tottenham Hotspur this season, playing entertaining, attacking football but not always getting the results and so may lose out to the ever-mighty Man U.
Though you wouldn't have wanted to be in the Old Trafford dressing room after their recent shock away defeat by Everton, no doubt the Govan legend Sir Alex Ferguson would have treated his players to a verbal hammering and maybe a teacup one as well.
It's too late for Man City to mount any sort of title challenge and Arsenal aren't as good this year as they were, though the managers' union will be pleased that there's zero chance of Arsene Wenger getting fired no matter how his team fares.
Cheryl who? Er ... what does she do apart from apparently appearing in The Sun, judging by all the articles here about whoever she is, the same sort of articles as ones about other nobodies like Lindsay Limpbough and Susan Boil. So we tracked down Cheryl Cole herself using the simple logic of using a BT telephone book, and spoke to the non-star after an angry exchange with a Mrs. Cheryl Cole of Shrimpton-super-Canale in Dorset.
'Hello?', Ms. Cole said after ten rings, and 'Hello', I cleverly replied, speaking through a handkerchief to disguise myself from being one of Britain's top authors and layabouts, 'are you Cheryl Cole?' 'Yeah', she said, and I heard the sound of a cheap cigarette lighter clicking, 'whatchawant?'
'My name is **** *********', I told her, 'and I'd like to ask you a question.' 'Go on then, but make it quick, I have to paint my fingernails before Corrie comes on.' 'OK. So, Miss Cole, who are you?'
And at this she assumed I was a tabloid reporter and burst into hysterical tears then dabbed her eyes with a hundred pound note, and sniffed and said 'I divvn't kna what tae do, ya ken, man', and I reached for my Newcastle Broon translation book. 'Ah'd, like, roon oota pooblicity stoonts tae get me in the news, like marrying that overrated idiot Ashley - what sort of twisted mother calls her son Ashley, how poncey does that fookin' sound?'
'And after milking him fer all the pooblicity Ah could 'e got pissed off with me and went and had a bit of fun with some other girls, the bastid! And then -', but I had hung up on her as if I had wanted to speak to some schemie slapper with no intelligence or ability at doing anything but opening her legs I'd've paid a visit to my first and thankfully now very ex wife.
Oh well, at least it keeps the kiddies in pink tshirts here happy, though I still don't know who Cheryl Cole is or why there's so much fuss about her. Nor do I care. Next.